


Grief

by TheFrustratedNerd



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Can you tell I hate gavin, Conan had a Toxic Past Relationship with Gavin, Conan used to be in love with Miller, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Past Relationship(s), RK900 is named Conan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 03:06:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16359527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFrustratedNerd/pseuds/TheFrustratedNerd
Summary: Chris is partnered with RK900 and ends up getting hurt on duty. You comfort RK900 in the aftermath.Originally posted on my writing blog: @sammies-writings-and-headcannons on tumblr





	Grief

It was killing you to see Conan like this. He’d never been cheery, exactly, but seeing him this morose almost physically hurt—hardly able to crack a smile at things that would typically make him laugh near-hysterically. You knew why, of course. Conan had been partnered with Chris just over 3 years back, and from what you’ve heard, they made a great team. They’d become friends outside of work as well, it wasn’t uncommon to see them spending time together outside of cases, and you knew how close they’d grown over the few years that they’d been working together. You were in the hospital alongside Conan as you waited to see if Chris would make it out of emergency surgery or not. You knew how hard Conan took it when the doctor broke the news that Chris didn’t make it.

However, you didn’t know what had happened before they got to that hospital. That night, Conan had contacted you in a state of panic, rambling in a nervous way that you’d never heard from him, that he was waiting in the hospital, that Chris had been shot, he’d tried to help, tried to save him—You’d reassured Conan as best you could, rushing to the hospital to wait with him, doing your best to comfort him and try to calm him down. Neither of you could sleep after you got home.

Conan could hardly manage to get out of bed in the morning, and while he still worked more efficiently than the typical person, his pace was much slower than was usual for him, he was distracted. After only a day of this, Fowler told him to take some time off to grieve, and Conan couldn’t find it in himself to protest. You were doing your best to help him work through this, but it was much easier said than done.

It was a month before Conan was ready to visit Chris’ grave, and when you got there it was raining, as was common in Detroit. Conan’s legs nearly gave out before he sat down on his knees in front of the granite slab, grief piercing through him like a cold knife twisting in his chest. Neither of you could tell if the drops of liquid trickling down his face were tears or raindrops. You knelt down beside him, hesitating for only a moment before resting a hand on his shoulder, a silent communication of your worry. He wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“It’s my fault.” You were almost startled by Conan’s words, giving him a confused look before he practically collapsed against you, saying more with the look he gave you than anything that he needed comfort. This was a rare moment of vulnerability for him, it was very hard for him to unlearn his old habits, that fear of allowing emotion, the ingrained instinct to remain stoic to avoid deactivation. You wrapped your arms around his trembling figure as he buried his face into your neck when you asked what he meant. It took him a few moments to respond, but when he did, there was a tremor to his voice you’d hardly ever heard.

“It’s my fault. He was shot while we were pursuing a suspect. A bullet that he could have avoided. I’ve run simulation after simulation after simulation—If I was just 0.3 seconds faster, h-he’d—” Conan couldn’t bring himself to keep talking. It felt as if there was something choking him, preventing him from expressing what was on his mind, but you’d seemed to understand regardless. He allowed a shaky breath to escape him, his eyes welling up as you held him tighter, tears spilling over as you softly reassured him, combing your fingers through his hair. This was the first time he’d really allowed himself to cry in front of someone else, face still hidden in the crook of your neck as his body shook, his fingers twisting in the fabric of your top as the two of you sat there in the rain, grieving and vulnerable.

“I-I just,” Conan choked out, “I loved him.”  
You weren’t exactly surprised. You saw how Conan looked at Chris, how he was always so happy to see or work with him, how he was constantly seeking Chris’ approval—how Conan practically beamed at the praise he’d receive when Chris was proud of him, which was very often. You muttered soft reassurances to him, soon realising just how cold he was, soon after which, the two of you went home.

Conan slept most of the day for the next few months, only awake when he was working, and even then he seemed exhausted. It wasn’t helped by the fact that he’d had to be reassigned as Gavin’s partner—though to be fair, Gavin did seem to lean off of his usual workplace bullying around Conan, so at least he was doing something right. You did your best to support Conan both in work and at home, making sure he was safe and in an alright place emotionally. However, despite your best efforts, there was a solid week that Conan had to take off of work due to hitting a particularly low point, and you couldn’t help the gnawing anxiety sitting in the pit of your stomach at having to leave him alone for extended periods of time as you attended work.

Conan, however, was glad to have the solitude. He was very happy that you’d been helping him, but there was a part of him that felt frustrated at your borderline-coddling, and his own lack of progress, his constant struggle with his own emotions. He would admit, there were times where he just wished it would all just stop. Everything was moving too fast, he felt lost in it all, caught up in the motions and disoriented. He wished he could fall asleep and never wake up. He’d thought about how he might end his own life, more than he’d like to admit. Perhaps now, when you were away during the day and he was alone at home, would be best. You wouldn’t have to deal with the guilt of having been in the same place as him and not having noticed, perhaps it would be easier for you like this. Before he even quite realised what he was doing, his fingers were sliding up under the thick wool of his sweater and ghosting over his thirium pump regulator, and he felt his breath hitch. Reality seemed to all snap back into place at once as he sat up and shook his head slightly, as if trying to physically clear the thoughts away. What was he thinking? Regardless of the time and place, it would hurt you, Hank, and Connor more than his mind could predict. He stood up, deciding to take his italian greyhound, Mango, for a walk to try to clear his mind.

It was almost 9 months after Chris’ death before Conan was back to being functional again. It still hurt, he didn’t think it would ever stop hurting, but he could focus and think about other things, the events of that night were no longer a constant presence in the back of his mind.

Another year and a half after that, and he was questioning himself again. He was falling in love with you. He recognised his own emotions quickly, and when he’d realised his feelings, a new cold sense of apprehension sat itself in his stomach. He’d been through this before. He fell in love with Gavin, only to be abused, to be conditioned to flinch when any man raised his voice or moved too suddenly. He fell in love with Chris, only for Chris to be in love with someone else, only for Chris to die because he couldn’t save him. He didn’t want to be hurt like that again—he didn’t want that weight on him, he didn’t want that feeling back, that things would be better if he was dead. So, he avoided you. He turned down your invitations over, avoided going to you for help with cases, tried to get it over with as soon as possible when you needed his help or the two of you had to work together—but this wouldn’t work forever, it couldn’t, he knew that. You were spending time with Connor when he was called out to help Hank with his broken down car about a mile and a half away, and you and Conan were alone together for the first time in what must have been months.

“Do you hate me? Did I do something wrong?” Your words felt like bullets piercing through his chest, a sharp and sudden pain that he hadn’t entirely been expecting.

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong, and I would never hate you.” Conan stated simply, a cold nausea gripping him as you finally confronted him about his avoiding you, how curt he’d been, how distant he was with you.

“If you don’t hate me, why are you acting like this? Never spending time with me, actively avoiding working with me or speaking to me directly, being so cold?” He looked hurt by your words, the nervousness in his grey eyes reflecting your own frustration and anxiety over confronting him. He held your gaze for only a second before looking away, shaking his head.

“Look, I’m sorry, but-”

“No, no excuses, Conan. Please just tell me the truth.” Your voice was firm, more of a command than a plea, and he could never disobey you. It took him a few moments to work up the courage, his led blinking red as he practically blurted out what was on his mind.

“I love you. I love you so much, and I’m-I’m scared, I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t want to fail you, I don’t want you to leave me—I’m sorry. I thought it would be easier for both of us if I just avoided you, avoided dealing with this, avoided everything. I’m sorry.” Conan refused to meet your eyes, and suddenly you were pulled back to that day at the cemetery, how Conan trembled and clung to you like a lifeline, how the tear stains marking his face were visible even in the rain—and guilt pulled at you like a collar of lead. His name escaped you in a breath as you pulled him into a hug, which he melted into as if it was the first time he’d ever been shown affection.

“I love you too. I’m not mad, but please, you can tell me about these things, love.” He didn’t respond other than by burying his face into the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping around you to cling onto you as if you were the only thing keeping him grounded. The two of you laid back on the couch, Conan still clinging to you as if he couldn’t believe this was real, as if the second he loosened his grip, you’d disappear. You held onto him just as tightly, deciding to make up for lost time in the way of affection. Things hadn’t been easy the past couple of years. You doubted they ever would be particularly easy. But you and Conan had each other, at least, regardless of how cheesy it sounded. You’d pull through. For each other.


End file.
